


if someone asks, this is where i'll be

by shipwrecks



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Edging, Emotional Intimacy, Experimental Style, M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, other vatreni make appearances, the usual scorpio stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-13
Packaged: 2019-07-25 21:54:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,090
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16206425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwrecks/pseuds/shipwrecks
Summary: it’s—funny, in the way that everything here—At The World Cup—is so intense that a manic humor escapes out the sides—in something like all of them, trying to bear this pressure as best they can.





	if someone asks, this is where i'll be

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brampersandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/gifts).



> brampersandon, i took a lot from your letter but especially “if you’re having fun, i’m having fun!” and i had lots of fun!!! this is structured like a symphony because futbol pundits/writers/etc love to compare teams to orchestras conducted by a maestro, and Also im an extremely Extra pretentious asshat. it’s..kinda experimental, really weird, and i hope u enjoy <3
> 
> after all the places This went in terms of musical accompaniment, it comes down to [talking heads' "this must be the place (naive melody)"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pVrVY540xdc) for additional sonic vibes.

Home is where I want to be  
Pick me up and turn me around  
I feel numb, born with a weak heart  
I guess I must be having fun

—david byrne, _this must be the place_

 

 **prelude. allegro** **  
** **Zagreb**

it was incredibly, incredibly bright.

perhaps brighter than it ever had been, clearly aimed specifically at his eyes—so much so, that light streamed through his lids and he cautiously peeled one open, as if to test it first. — _too bright—nope_ —he closed it straightaway, rolling over as he did so, immediately regretting the choice—his head—godfuckshit his head—

Anyway, rolled over and—

"good morning! you were absolutely wasted last night!"

Ćorluka’s— _close_ —sunny and chipper—apparently unharmed from the night previous. his hair is amusingly sticking out in all directions.

Luka manages something of a shrug-noise which makes him raise an eyebrow with a chuckle.

"do you feel like shit today?"

Luka does, in fact, feel like shit today—the lights being too incredibly bright should have been an early warning—

"yeah—you so do! come on, let's get breakfast. i can tell you how much fun you had last night."

Luka is—wants to tense up at the potential _Gotcha_ moment that sentences like that are often a pretext for, but—though there's a mischievous glint in his eyes—his face looks incredibly earnest. too incredibly bright.

dressed and off, he wraps an arm around luka—familiar,  _outside a bar last night_ —and immediately launches into a story about when he himself was terribly drunk. squeezes him tighter during the important parts. ruffles luka’s hair a bit— _happens to the very best of us_. then they go eat breakfast, in the crawling hours of the morning.

 

 

 **i. adagio  
** **Vienna, 2008**

the defeat at euros—crushing, and the weight feels all the heavier on luka— _should have done it, should have been able to—they were all counting on you_ on loop in his head. like a punishing round he keeps yelling at himself.

he wants to go back to his room, to be left alone in peace, to chew on all the things he’d do differently if—

then he feels a hand at the small of his back—is curled into arms—

“you know it’s bullshit” said into his hair.

“it never should have happened that way” said into his neck.

“I—”

“      ” said later into his mouth.

(easy for him to say—luka now alone, now upset and bitter and chewing—maybe they're all to blame in some ways, but vedran’s name wasn't on bilić’s sheet—doesn't have that exact moment where he was supposed to—and didn't.

but something of a consolation comes later—in the form of him inviting luka and ivan over to hide out at his place for a day or two to lick their wounds in something like peace—playstation, beer, sex—ivan going down on vedro as he tries to scramble eggs—luka and vedran in the hallway, luka pinning his wrists against the wall as they lazily kiss—kicking his ass at mario kart—until they're something like themselves again.)

 

 

 **ii. allegro di molto  
** **Astana, 2009**

he has to watch the game—watch them win—and it still isn’t enough.

they’re not going to south africa.

 

 

 **interlude. andante** **  
** **London**

“you could go _anywhere_ —but _that_ fucking club—”

“they’re one of the biggest clubs in the world! imagine what that would be like for us, showing everyone that we’re just as good as any spaniard or german…”

“and I want to,” luka says, quieter. charlie immediately snaps his head towards him. he knows— _he knows_ —why he wants to—and he’s leaving too so it’s not like—

“besides, you’re moving to fucking moscow!”

(luka goes for charlie’s neck—bites down and sucks a bruise in—marks him in red and purple as charlie keens his head back, exposes his throat. he’s got a hand around him—stroking slowly—building him up. charlie’s incredibly easy to rile up—especially knowing when he wants it fast—luka does—and not giving it to him—luka doesn't.

 _fuck you_ —breathy, with a laugh on the end that becomes a moan when luka bites harder and runs his thumb over the tip of his cock—pulls his hand away instantly. he can feel charlie’s nails—digging in the back of his left hip—feel the fabric of his shirt stretch as he grips it tighter—impatiently looking for friction. _not yet_ —

luka starts slow again—winding him up once more. strokes him just a bit faster—bites a bit harder—longer—pulls his hand away instantly. he keeps getting charlie closer and closer—pulls him right to the edge then— _no_. charlie sighs—antsy, wound up tight, pinned down against luka—can’t just _release_.

luka brings him close one last time— _do you want to come_ —can somehow ask it like it’s not filthy—like he’s the innocent people think he is—feels a nod— _say it_ — _Yes_ —

he quickly dips down to take charlie’s cock in his mouth, pulls him to the very edge—charlie threads his fingers through luka’s hair—tugs it—then luka lets him finally come.

 

“i know why you're going. i guess,” charlie says—later—next to him in bed, space between them now.

“yeah, i—”

“i'm going to be mad about it for a bit, okay?”

“okay,” luka says with something like wry diplomacy. which irritates charlie, but they’ll still sleep together tonight, and eventually—the space between them will disappear.)

there’s a thick tension in the air—one that presses down on them—tells them what they always knew but aren’t saying— _you weren’t going to play together forever_ —and something twists funny in his stomach. they’re acting like they’re mad—but it isn’t quite that. or—that isn’t all it is.

 

 

**São Paulo, 2014**

it feels like some classic balkan joke—playing their first game against brazil again, almost to the day—but even they couldn’t have predicted how bad it was going to be.

it was bad— _god_ it was _so_ bad—where every win is important—

they’re not drunk, they’re just— _of course_ one of them had pilfered some vodka—and of course it was drank—but—they’re not drunk. they’re just—there’s something deeply comical amidst the frustration— _so this is how this is going to go, huh_ —but then, most of them have had years to fashion gallows humor into armor. and so, here they are, jumping into the hotel pool with abandon—and without clothes.

“welcome to the fucking world cup, balkans!”

it’s dejan—of course it is—and what would have garnered some ironic chuckles gets a lot more when they all see him completely naked, arms outspread, before he dives in. čarli follows—letting out a whooping yell. and for a moment—despite feeling the loss in their bones—despite it being the reason they’re here—despite it being all they can talk about— _fucking ref_ this, _fucking fifa_ that—the world feels light, suspended in time—for this, for them.

 

he sees the news the next day—both the tabloids and the press—there they all are, fully exposed, no matter which one you look at. but luka—he smiles, at the brash honesty—the way they’re _there_ , telling everyone to just give the cup to brazil—their ass out in the rags that’ll post them. it’s—funny, in the way that everything here— _At The World Cup_ —is so intense that a manic humor escapes out the sides—in something like all of them, trying to bear this pressure as best they can.

 

 

 **iii. minuet and trio** **  
** **France, 2016**

inan’s kick goes higher than it does long and luka can see where it’s going to land—knows what he can do—can practically _feel_ the goal at the end of his feet—then it sails into the back of the net so smoothly, can practically hear the _swish_ were it not for how absolutely wild the stands sound when it does.

an exhilarating rush—to be at the bottom of a pile of what feels like the entire squad—can't stop clutching at him everywhere. a hysterical overcome joy like nothing else. darijo could be shouting something into his ear or he could just be pressing himself close to luka—noise too loud to find specifics—he knows what he means.

(čarli’s still bleeding when the match ends— _but fuck if I was going to let those bitches in_ —and they’re all worried about his head—says he’s okay but—they take shifts keeping him awake all night—luka stays put the whole time—mateo comes in at some point, tries to insist he’s here to relieve luka but then it's all three of them—some errant beers with no specific owner— _not for you vedro, you’re on enough pain meds as it is_ —watching the earliest light of the morning crawl over the horizon.

“you don't have to do this,” čarli says—though they both can tell he’s thoroughly pleased with everyone fretting over him. he’s tired—they all are—but there’s still a glint in his eyes behind the dark circles—a devilish upturn to his mouth.

luka yawns and as if on cue—there’s ivan, bleary-eyed and bed-headed, poking his head in their room to shoo him off to bed— _go to my room_ —and luka’s finally too wiped out to give much of a protest.

 

much) later—after spain—they—vedran and ivan—round on him as soon as he’s showered—smiles on their faces sweet. deviant. _we didn’t get to congratulate you before_ —čarli laughs when luka rolls his eyes—something like _you don’t have to do this_ and _well, it was your fault_ —as ivan’s already pulling him to the bed, čarli—giving him a little push—bookending him in between them.

later—ivan curls his hand around him—well, around what doesn’t fit in his mouth—and sucks him off torturously slow. warming him up.

later—čarli spread out, above him—sinking down onto him with just a curl in his hips that makes luka's back arch—trying to get further inside him— _closer_. there's the slap and salt of skin dizzy in his head—and when ivan presses sloppy open-mouthed kisses down čarli’s neck and shoulder—snakes an arm around his chest and lets it find its way around his cock—strokes it languidly then speeds up—čarli’s head falls back—on ivan’s shoulder—mouth open, _O_ —it could be years ago—could be tomorrow— _godshitfuck_ —they both coil up like wire—then release.

later—the room sticky sweet—gross, arguably, but—sweet like vengeance. sweet like justice. sweet like vedro mumbling something or other against his chest, like ivan already breathing in a steady rhythm, as they all, exhausted, tumble into sleep.

(in the place between dreams—hazily awake—eyes closed—luka remembers 2008. remembers 2012. remembers 2014. it all creeps up in him and—čarli murmurs _go to sleep luk_ —of course he knows—so luka does.)

later—but then it's too late.

 

 

 **iv. presto  
** **Russia, 2018**

they’ve won all their matches so far—won the group— _destroyed_ argentina—and the world learns their names—as _dark horse_ begins to sound less like a weight that’s been around their necks since 1998 and more like a chance to prove just how likely they can be.

it’s getting closer to the first round of knockouts—and doubts—supported by history—are beginning to grow. they—him and čarli—like they always do—unwind by winding themselves up over video games instead.

they’re approaching their final lap when luka says “tomorrow’s gonna be intense” calculatedly casual—and čarli knows it. he laughs big like _Duh_ —but he knows where this is going, what luka means.

“yeah we’re under a lot of pressure but—we get through this game like we’ve been doing.”

“they’re expecting miracles from us.”

“oh they always do, they’re a bit unreasonable that way.”

they both laugh—but it’s stuck in their throats—so many of them have been playing together for so long, and they’re running out of chances.

“do you think we can do it?”

“don’t tell me you’re having a crisis of faith, kapetan. what—do raketa and i need to remind you once again how— _devoted_ we are to you?”

( _let your co-captains congratulate you properly_ someone had said somewhere around his left hip between kisses and bites. pink creeps up in luka’s face—self-conscious—like _this is too much_ —though he certainly won’t deny seeing čarli and ivan together— _for him_ —stirs something deep in him, heated and fond.

perhaps, he can have this. all of this.)

luka—abrupt with the thought of that—loses concentration, even momentarily, and it sends his driver spinning off the road—čarli laughs when he starts running through croatian, spanish, then even some english swears. then he has to laugh too—as čarli crosses the finish line and celebrates his win by pinning luka down on the bed, kissing him silly.

 

“—don't fucking blow me off! i saw you on the pitch today!”

Luka looks at him— _we're not doing this now_ —which he knows he understands. ignores.

“you're gonna get seriously fucking injured—”

“oh like you in paris? when your fucking head cracked open—and _you_ stopped playing?”

a huff of irritation—an impasse.

Luka thinks about that match—thinks about this one—thinks about everything he, vedro—any of them—have put themselves through for—for—

there’s a moment—a quick little flash—where they look at each other and—an understanding.

Čarli finally says, “yeah—i get it, i’m just—”

“ _yeah_. i know.”

 

they made it to the final— _the fucking world cup final_ —with aches and pains and doubts but they’re _there_ —they earned their spot like anyone else and they’ve got just as much a claim on the trophy as france. they’ve just got to keep doing what they’re doing—push even harder—

(when the final whistle blows—he springs forward—until he’s diving down the other end—piles of them all screaming—hearing it all echoed back to them—they’ve waited so long for this, so many of them—čarli finds mandzo and luka—falls into their arms and grabs them tight—feels all the years it’s taken to get here in the _texture_ of everything blaring on his senses—ivan collapses on top of him with a smile bright like the sun the moment he rolls over—he grabs him—can’t stop grabbing everyone— _We Fucking Did It—We’re Fucking Doing It_ —their foreheads knock before ivan just gives out, into his arms.)

it’s all a frenzied blur—the constant adrenaline pumping through their veins as they feel everything all the way to their edges and they will their bodies be and do more more more—it’s exhausting as they buzz in spite of it. no moment is calm anymore—even the ostensible early curfew now in place until sunday, to get as much rest as they can, hums with equal excitement and trepidation—so much of prediction relies on the past and this is unprecedented—as if they don’t know what feeling is fitting, they run through them all.

they drink and celebrate— _we’re in the fucking world cup final_ —until finally—dalić doing his best to actually enforce the curfew—ivan follows luka and čarli to their room—as he’s wont to do—even if it’ll make sleeping a tight fit—it’s more comfortable than him not being there, anyway. they’d pushed the beds together—one big bed now that they all fall into, beer-sleepy and dazed, too tired to do anything except press close to one another in a pile—put the television on for background noise—tangle hands in hair—entwine fingers lazily—habitual intimacy more than a deliberate attempt. luka ends up in the middle—like he often does—ivan’s leg curled around his, čarli’s arm draped over his side when they finally drift off to sleep.

 

alone. upset—bitter—chewing—maybe they could’ve—maybe _he_ could’ve—

( _i guess that is how it was supposed to be_ —vedro had said once. it stings again—and it’s heavier somehow, the weight of _dark horse_ becoming the inconsequence of _fairytale_.)

it wasn’t enough.

he ran and he ran and he couldn’t stop running—like he’s never done anything else—and it wasn’t enough.

there’s a strange dimension to the game— _The Game_ , every game—knowing that it’s very often unfair—that the best team doesn’t always win—yet walking on to that pitch again and again anyway with at least a trace of the belief that it’s going to be— _should_ be. something like cognitive dissonance—those who are hopeful enough to know how it could be are perpetually unsatisfied.

but this isn’t just another match. can’t wrench everything he feels right now into _next time_ because—

 

hours later—on the other side of drunk—silver medals around their necks—he can’t change the result—and _what ifs_ will always linger, with a match like that—but luka—

all the things they _did_ do—they did together—and luka loves each and every one of them for all that they gave for the jersey—how hard they worked even when it seemed like the end—the only luck in this journey is that he was lucky enough to do it with them.

 

 

 **postlude. allegro vivace** **  
** **Zagreb**

it’s incredibly, incredibly bright.

his head throbs before he can even peel an eye open—can’t find it in him to complain, though, not today—after everything they did to get here—well, back here, but—everything they left on every pitch, everything they have to be proud of—and he is, _he is_ , could have burst yesterday in the city center surrounded by it all—

cracks a smile as he rolls over to see Čarli next to him—face buried in his pillow—groans when Luka gives him a shove—only lifts himself up enough to get out a barely audible _you shit_. Luka ruffles his hair then laughs as he gets up—telling Čarli he’s taking a shower before breakfast. his head lifts again at _shower_ —or maybe _breakfast_ —but he follows Luka in either way.

then they go eat breakfast, in the crawling hours of the morning.

 

Home, is where I want to be  
But I guess I'm already there

—david byrne, _this must be the place_


End file.
